“But backtrack for a second. How did you find the Federov connection?”
“I hacked the computer of a certain Swiss businessman.”
“You what?”
“I hacked into his computer and downloaded all the contents into mine.”
“His computer wasn’t coded?” she asked.
“Not very efficiently.” Chang answered. He laughed. “I’m Asian so I’m good at those things. The Switzer was a dumb old white guy as far as security software went. It wasn’t much of a challenge. And his laptop was like a little box of gold,” Chang said. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about tonight.”
“So talk,” she said, only slightly distracted by the best tuna filet she had ever encountered.
“I also recovered the banking records that showed exactly into what account the checks from China had been deposited. Normally, the trace on a route of a check deposited in Switzerland will hit security roadblocks and we’d need the help of the Swiss authorities to follow the money all the way back to the deposit.”
“Usually that cooperation is forthcoming,” she noted.
“Yes. But one is always at risk of certain bankers alerting the opposition by letting the depositor know that questions were being asked. So I hacked into the system for the complete records of that account,” Chang said. “I followed the money.”
Her fork stopped in mid-motion. “You hacked into the entire Swiss banking system?” she asked.
“Well, just one of the big banks. That was enough this time. Okay, I needed some help from one of our Hong Kong-trained techies. So she flew over from London for a day and got the job done. It’s like a Trojan Horse virus via microwaves on the bank’s main computer. If we know what account to connect with, we can drop our virus in and monitor transactions, past and current. From there we can monitor any other account that receives or disperses a transaction from the first account. Then the Trojan Horse self-destructs leaving no trace.”
“Do the Swiss know you have this capability?”
“Some of the banks do,” he said. “Sometimes they ask us for some help figuring out what their depositors are up to. One dirty hand washes the other.”
She shook her head in amazement. Tens of thousands of depositors with numbered accounts wouldn’t have found Peter’s tale anywhere nearly as amusing.
“Anyway,” Chang continued, “the money was dispersed to other accounts within minutes after it had cleared. One of the accounts was in Spain, two were in Saudi Arabia. We followed the international routing numbers and sent our Trojan Horse after it.”
“So that would link the people who were fencing The Pietà of Malta to people in the Middle East as well as Spain,” she said.
“It would appear that way,” Peter Chang said. “But the first deposit was closely followed by another deposit and a similar transfer,” he said. “For the same amount of money. And then the second transfer dispersed the money almost in the same manner, except there was fifty thousand dollars siphoned off, which went to a bank in Athens that specializes in trade with the Mideast.”
“Did you get names off the accounts?”
“Not real ones. No surprise there. The trail dead-ends into fake passports and IDs. Very professional stuff, by the way.”
Thinking it backward, she said, “Athens, huh?”
“Athens. Yes. Why is that significant?”
“When my Italian buddy had a needle stuck in his butt the other night,” she said, “he said the people who did it were speaking Greek. Maybe that’s nothing. Maybe it suggests we’re on the right track.”
“Maybe. And maybe not,” Peter Chang said. “Look, my brief only addresses the sale to China, my government’s displeasure on how the transaction was handled, and the fate of the gentleman who was murdered in Switzerland. But as long as I’m in this, I don’t mind assisting you with your own investigation. Don’t get me wrong-I’m being paid to do this. Paid very well. And I, on behalf of my government, don’t personally like our opponents here either. So now you know pretty much everything that I know. If you’d like me to stay with you on this, I’m here. If not, I’ll walk.”
“I’d be honored if you stayed with me on this,” she said.
“So I’ll cover your back, and, if necessary, you cover mine,” he said.
“It’s a deal.”
She reached across the table. They shook hands. His hand was intense and strong. It almost gave her a shudder. She finished her plate, and the last few sips of wine with it. She was feeling slightly buzzed, a safe but pleasant level.
A busboy arrived and cleared the table. The waiter arrived with a dessert menu. Alex maintained her will power for almost a quarter minute until the waiter talked them into taking some coffee accompanied by a plate to share of buñelos de viento, puffs of choux pastry stuffed with sweet vanilla or chocolate cream.
“Death from gunfire is one thing,” she said with a shrug. “Death from triglycerides and cholesterol is something else. What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?”
“I need to do some banking,” he answered. “Accompany me when I do it. There are some things you should see.”
“Can we do it in the morning?” she asked. “First thing?”
“That would be best,” he said. “Did you have a conflict?”
“I was going to go out to the Escorial,” she said, “and perhaps the Valley of the Fallen where the big monument stands to the Civil War dead. It’s about an hour outside the city. Ever been out there?”
“No.”
“Interested?”
“I am,” he said. “I have a car. I can drive.”
She considered it. “Okay,” she said. “On a professional level, right?”
“Completely,” he said.
“It’s a deal.”
THIRTY-NINE
MARSEILLES, SEPTEMBER 10, LATE EVENING
As soon as Lazzari was out of Jean-Claude’s view, the Frenchman was on his feet, moving down the same pathway between the tables. No shot rang out from across the street, no backup leaped forward with a pistol.
Jean-Claude arrived on the sidewalk. Perfect timing. Split second, but perfect. He looked in Lazzari’s direction, about ten meters down the sidewalk.
“Monsieur!” he yelled. “Monsieur Lazzari!” He shouted as if it was an afterthought, as if he had forgotten something.
The Turk turned quickly, one hand clutching the tote bag, the other on his weapon within his outer shirt.
“You forgot something!” Jean-Claude yelled.
What the Turk had forgotten was to keep his guard up until he was out of the country. The distraction was just enough.
From an alley beyond the curb stepped a masked figure-Jean-Claude’s accomplice-with something in his hands. Quickly, professionally, as efficiently as someone flipping a ribbon around a gift-wrapped box, the masked man looped a piano-wire garrote around Lazzari’s neck. And then with the force of two powerful arms yanking at full strength, he pulled the wire in on itself closed. It zipped like a razor through the flesh, veins, and cartilage of the neck until it closed onto the spinal column.
Lazzari, a strong man himself, fought for no more than the final few seconds of his life. The gun flew from his left hand and the tote bag dropped from his right. His neck spurted like a broken water pipe, blood squirting and flowing from the deep sharp incisions left by the wire.
His assassin boldly dropped him, wire still in place, turned, and disappeared into the alley. Closely behind him followed Jean-Claude, who stopped only to retrieve the bag of money. Then he too disappeared into the alleys and darkness of Marseilles along a carefully planned route of escape, as minutes later, horrified residents surrounded the dead body and local police began to converge on the scene.